Does anyone remember when I used to upload every two weeks? Wasn't life sweet? Anyway, here's a little snippet to tide y'all over while I work on a request for Eddie Van Halen - it is coming, I swear! I didn't really write this with anyone in mind, hence the cryptic title - so you can imagine this with absolutely anyone you would like. I hope you enjoy.
--☆--
He woke first, attempting to resist the temptation of watching over you like a guardian angel but succumbing immediately when he noticed the softness of the morning sun illuminating the skin of your eyelids until they looked like nothing but tissue paper. He knew something so delicate was not enough to protect the beauty they contained and so took it upon himself to do so by locking you under his gaze.
First, the curve of your nose, rising from the soft skin of your face like the sloping hills of the countryside he so adored. Then, the contour of your cheek contrasting with the sharpness of your jawline, the soft skin that resided there. Next, the soft roundness of your lips, slightly chapped from the idle night but still easily traceable in his mind.
But as he sat admiring the most beautiful work of art he had ever been blessed to see, he couldn't escape from this melancholy feeling that started in his belly, clawed its way up to his heart and continued to push on to his brain, where it settled like a boulder falling into water.
He was missing something. Something unreachable. Something you had that he so sorely wanted, but that you would not, or could not, give up. Like seeing a playground in which you used to cavort as a child, but knowing that you are too old to rush through the gate again. The final time for that had come and gone.
Rather than pondering what it could be, his mind roamed to why it could be. Why were you keeping something from him? Was it something you were even capable of giving? Were you even aware of the black hole that was beginning to erupt in his heart?
In a way, you had always alluded him. He was like a child chasing after a fairy - even after he had you cupped delicately in between his palms, he didn't know what to do with you next. He couldn't entrap you, for that would starve the universe of your ethereal beauty, but he couldn't let you roam around the world alone, because you wouldn't be protected by the gentleness of his quivering hands.
But it was always something forgettable. Like the glazed look he saw in your eyes when you were unaware that he was in the room, or the twitch of your fingers as you reached out to him, or the sharp bite of your lip if you were worrying in a moment of would-be calm.
Only during the blank silence of morning did this overwhelming feeling strike him, when there were no distractions besides the curl of your eyelashes and the freckles on your back. A feeling he couldn't even put a name to. A feeling that shone the same colour as your hair beneath the soft six am sunlight.
You grumbled in your sleep, shuffling discontentedly. Shuffling away from him. Unaware of the amount of time he had spent watching over you, he started, as though suddenly shocked by the need to do something he had forgotten. Briefly, he redirected his gaze to the clock on his bedside cabinet. Almost 7. He would have to leave soon. Life was waiting.
Still, he could not bring himself to move. Now, he resigned himself to sitting up against the headboard, as close to you as he physically dared without waking you. Although he was no longer consciously staring at you, his subconscious had not stopped since the day you met, and he pondered his peculiar predicament with the same glazed attention as we ponder many things in the rising sunlight.
Perhaps he wanted too much. You had, after all, vowed to give your life to him. Was that not enough? Or was he imagining that little unreachable piece of you? Maybe it was as fictitious as Peter Pan's kiss, tucked away in the corner of your lip.
You stirred suddenly, the final embers of sleep curling and dying as you blinked your eyes open. For a moment, you lay still, squeezing your tired eyes shut and stretching your shoulders in your comfortable position.
Acutely aware of your inconspicuous wake-up routine, he laid a gentle, warm hand on your shoulder, a quiet, safe good morning. He didn't look over, but he knew you were smiling.
You batted open your eyes once more, rolled over, cuddled into his side. He mumbled a soft good morning, deliberately dragging his roughened fingertips up the soft skin of your back to cradle your head. You returned his greeting with sleepy vigour, pressed a misplaced kiss into his chest, and snuggled back down beside him.
Yes, perhaps he would never know. Was he right or wrong? And, if he was right, would he ever find that missing piece to complete himself?
But, when the quietness of morning dwindled and you smiled at him and told him you loved him, he knew for certain that he didn't really care.
--☆--
I would like to give a shout out to this person, whose profile picture scared the crap out of me and then made me laugh out loud:
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